


Slumbering Old Gods

by Ribbonshalos



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Drunken Kissing, F/M, Feathered Serpent Sombra, Fluff, One Shot, Romance, mild violence, monster hunter mccree
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-07
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-28 02:58:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13894791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ribbonshalos/pseuds/Ribbonshalos
Summary: “My name is Pharah. There’s a village down in Mexico, a little ways past the big cities and hidden in the jungle. My mother and I live there.”She jerks her chin upwards, conveying her absolute intensity.“Mr. McCree, a terrible thing is plaguing the people of our village. I alone can’t kill the monster harming my home, but I know you can.”Either she’s crazy, or honest, either way, McCree knocks back the rest of the bottle.





	Slumbering Old Gods

**Author's Note:**

> I can't get enough of human/monster romances so I had to try my hand with McSombra and my favorite trope.

McCree finishes a shot of bourbon when a body slides into the chair next to his. His hat rests on the bar besides the bottle of amber liquid. Checking its placement on the worn wood, he’ll need to grab it quick if whoever this person is turns out to be unsavory.

“Mr. McCree,” a feminine voice raises his gaze to a dark skin, short haired woman beside him. A strange tattoo decorates her right eye, mostly curving outwards underneath her eyelid.

“Sorry, not interested for company tonight,” he rumbles into his glass.

“I’m here because of your kind of business, Mr. McCree.”

Her firm insistence causes him to tuck his elbow upon the bar. Turning to face her, he drinks again. His business is not light or for the faint of heart. Few even know of what he does, much less who he is. In a lowly bar in Georgia, this woman has found him for business.

He goes over her features and body language, looking for any signs of her being directly a part of his business. Not pale nor seemingly hiding pointed teeth. There are plenty of other signs of even deadly things.

“My business, ma’am,” he asks, holding her hard, determined gaze.

“My name is Pharah. There’s a village down in Mexico, a little ways past the big cities and hidden in the jungle. My mother and I live there.”

She jerks her chin upwards, conveying her absolute intensity.

“Mr. McCree, a terrible thing is plaguing the people of our village. I alone can’t kill the monster harming my home, but I know you can.”

Either she’s crazy, or honest, either way, McCree knocks back the rest of the bottle.

“Stop calling me mister, ma’am, it’s just McCree,” he says as her brow flickers for a moment in impatience.

“Can you help us, McCree?” she asks. Her face falls to shadows of intense and soft desperation in the poor bar light.

“Do you have any idea what this monster looks like?” He drops his voice low, even though the bar is nearly empty and almost lost of sobriety. Hunting a creature of the night lurking in Mexico wouldn’t be a first for him.

“Yes.” There’s a more steady light in her voice. “Have you ever killed a feathered serpent, McCree?”

There’s no more amber liquid left, but he would down it now if he could.

“No, I can’t say that I have.”

* * *

Pharah has no gold or diamonds to offer, only information. Gathering supplies and horses, she leads him through the land and down to Mexico.

The feathered serpent terrorizing their small village is revered as a god to the inhabitants. She took her mother there originally as to take care of her now that she’s missing an eye and elderly. It became far from ideal when they discovered a giant monster routinely comes out of the darkness to eat men and livestock alike.

McCree has never heard of such a thing, but feathered serpents date back much farther than any Europeans on the land. The people give sacrifices to the creature, hoping to calm its thirst for blood but it’s never satisfied. Pharah wants to kill it, but she’s not used to this business and her mother insisted on finding Jesse McCree.

“You’ve killed dozens of monsters, right?” she asks as they begin their start into Latino cities.

“I don’t keep track,” he says.

As helpful as she’s been, Pharah can’t provide any details about its mannerisms or workings. All she knows is that it’s big, fast and lethal. The creature comes at night, seemingly out of the shadows, and strikes before one can blink.

“I’d think a feathered serpent would be a little more noticeable,” McCree comments in a flat tone of frustration.

“You’d think,” she agrees, just as unhappy.

Monsters need to be killed. It’s not a pleasant job, nor is it the cleanest, but he does it, and does it well. Her gratitude keeps echoing until he asks her to pay him in silence. There’s a sharp hope blooming in her hard face, but McCree doesn’t encourage it. He only drinks and looks through his weapons.

Vampires and werewolves are one ordeal. A feathered serpent he’s never hunted before and seems to keep all eyes off of its true traits is another matter entirely.

He cleans his gun and checks the silver daggers lining his belt. It’s about time he fights something new.

They ride through cities and smaller towns. Pharah’s Spanish is much better than his, but he catches pieces of information as they move through. She’s determined to get him there. When they break away from the last major city, the lush trees filling Mexico’s grounds swallow them up. In the daylight, it’s a blessed shade but in the night, he’s on edge. There’s very little vantage point but Pharah sleeps like a rock. Slowly, he takes his finger off his gun and slips into a tense slumber.

Pharah’s description of her small village didn’t prepare him for the simple wooden homes and farms. It’s easier to describe it as a loose circle of buildings with one large pathway of pebbles cutting through. The path leads deeper into the trees and to a temple, but they stop their horses upon a home at the edge of the village.

“Fareeha?” a voice calls as they enter the simple house.

“I’m back, Mom,” she greets, hugging an elderly woman sharing her dark skin and hair. The older woman’s right eye is missing, leaving McCree with a heavy stare upon her one brown eye.

“You’re the monster hunter,” she states, staying a beat too long on his prosthetic arm. He slips his sleeve discreetly over his wrist.

“Jesse McCree, ma’am,” he offers, shaking her hand with his flesh one.

“Ana Amari,” she says, “If you stick around a few days, you’ll get a glimpse of just what you’re going up against. At least, you should if you don’t want to die immediately.”

McCree grins underneath his hat.

“That sounds like a fine idea, ma’am.”

The wait isn’t as long as he thought it would be.

A temple barely disturbs the tree tops thick foliage of green. A pyramid of a sort, where the villagers go to offering prayers at its base to the feathered serpent. It was built long before these generations, and it will stay standing for even more.

He wants to scout it out, find all the entrances and exits, but Pharah and Ana warns of the villagers being difficult. They don’t want backlash from disturbing the great snake. It is best if they simple try to pray to it and hope it lets them life in relative peace.

“That’s a sorry life, if I’ve ever seen one,” McCree grumbles while chewing the end of a cigarette.

“That’s why you’re here,” Pharah says, sharing his same dislike of the situation. “When we came here, we hoped to finally have a little peace and quiet. Now, we have a demon running around in our backyards that the people like to pet.”

He snorts at that, and Ana frowns.

The people are wary of him. His left arm is not of what normal people see, so he keeps it tucked behind his coat and gloves. Some of the kids will come up to him, curious and full of questions. Their eyes light up upon his gun hostler or crossbow against his back, but Pharah is a good translator. The talks never last long before a concern parent calls back their children from the mysterious man.

Stories circle about the feathered serpent, but nothing tells of its exact abilities. Many people repeat about its shadows, or darkness. Pharah thinks it’s just because of its black scales, but the meaning doesn’t sit right with McCree. Dangerous monsters usually have a trick or two up their sleeve.

The monster hunter gets a glimpse of the feathered serpent a week and a half into his stay.

McCree is about through with a cigarette when footsteps pick up outside the Amari household. The little window provides a nice view of the mysterious men storming the village center. In dark clothing, armed to the teeth with swords and daggers, they hustle quietly. McCree’s hand stays on his gun, but he snuffs out his smoke while watching them march through. They don’t stop to break into houses or such. Their only path seems to lead to the temple.

Getting to his feet, McCree slips to the door. As he goes to open it a wrinkled but strong hand grasps his shoulder.

“Stay inside, monster hunter,” Ana’s voice whispers its warning. “Be quiet and watch.”

He stays, looking from her one sharp eye to the men marching forward. Their dark clothes almost hide the bags among their backs. Thieves, he would guess.

The temple is full of gold and jewelry given in offering to a feathered serpent.

A cow moos, awake in the middle of the night. The animal shakes its head as its lead between the many hidden men.

They don’t leave the clearing. Instead, one takes a sword to the throat of the cow. It doesn’t make a sound when it falls, and others dive in with their knives ready. McCree wrinkles his noise at the scent of iron filling the air. The center of the village will be stained red.

What are they doing? Calling it here with a sacrifice so they don’t have to fight it in its own temple? His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t speak as Ana keeps watching the unfolding events.

Then he hears it. A noise rising between the trees. It seems to come from everywhere, and the men startle around the dead cow. Swords raised, they shout in their native tongue.

The noise grows like a thousand snakes slithering around the village. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up in anticipation. If he were out in the open, besides a blood drenched offering, he’d be one tense man.

A man screams, suddenly cut off as the leaves on the east side of the village rustle. Others yell, but no one seems to know what to fight, or where to even look.

This time, he catches it. The movement of a viper striking through the darkness. Another man is taken, but doesn’t have time to even breathe. Swords slash and knives are thrown, but none hit any flesh.

The hissing rises, and McCree’s breath stops in his lungs when he finally beholds the village’s deity.

The feathered serpent’s head is large enough to fit a full grown man’s body into its jaws. Black, oily scales moves like shadows across the ground. Feathers flare out on its twisting, seemingly weightless body. Pink, green and purple frame it’s large, black head as it stabs its fangs into the flesh of a man. As long as the path leading through the village, with a body as thick as three men, the feathered serpent’s hiss moves through his bones.

It kills four men before he can blink. The others scream, and some dart for the houses but the serpent is undeniable. It slithers in a contrasting silent wave to its large body. A moving shadow. It encases a poor soul in its coil of scales. The man’s yelling slowly cuts off as he’s crushed under long muscles and moving feathers.

The creatures moves as if gliding through the air, like the moonbeams are its steps. The ripple of scales and silent fan of stunning feathers is unearthly. McCree has never seen the likes of it in all of his hunts and travels.

For one moment, the feathered serpent pauses. It casts its dark eyes upon the few remaining men. A vertical pupil hunts for its next victim, but brown irises hold humanity.

An intelligent monster.

Even worst.

A man darts for the Amari’s house. McCree’s hand shoots for his gun, drawing it free of its hostler before placing an arm between Ana and the door. She murmurs a warning just as the man snaps off the handle. He forces his way inside. A crazed panic fills his features as he wildly lunges for the elderly woman, but McCree pulls the trigger.

The shot echoes, deafening in the now silent clearing. The man slumps forward, baring a hole in his chest as McCree shoves the corpse out the door. Ana’s frail hand grazes against his shoulder as he steps onto the street with the bandit body.

He knows what he’s done. There is no mistaking the aura bearing upon him. Tilting his head up, underneath the brim of his hat, he stares into the eyes of a monster.

The feathered serpent is a still shadow, looming upon him with still feathers and sharp, dripping fangs. It knows the body at his feet, and his own weapon remaining in his hand. Slowly, he slips it back into his holster, facing the monster.

The serpent’s mouth widens.

“White man,” the serpent’s voice hisses and slithers against his ears, but it rings with a feminine tone. English, somehow. Female, through and through. “You are in my home. I don’t remember inviting such a thing to live here.”

He steels himself, keeping his gaze from looking into the open doorway of the Amari’s house.

“I’m only here to see what is going on. You are protective of this village.”

Killing those men was not an act of simple bloodthirstiness. She saw their weapons and their greed for gold in their eyes. This is her village, and by the grace of that, the people here are protected.

The serpent lets out a low hiss, leaving the impression of a sinister smile in his mind.

“I can smell other creatures blood on you, hunter.”

The serpent coils her tail, looming even more. Her black scales, and large head hover only inches from his hat. McCree stays still, refusing to blink.

A hiss seems to drown out all his other sense.

“Hunter, I am not those simple monsters that you kill with silver and stakes.” The serpent’s head moves slowly, looming above him. “I am a goddess. You will find the difference immensely great.”

The feathered serpent’s jaw widens, showing off her fangs. They hold as long as half his body, and shine dangerously in their curve.

“You are not the usual evil things I kill,” McCree agrees gruffly, “I just wanted to meet you.”

It’s a thin truth. Yes, he did want to find the feathered serpent, but not for a causal conversation.

The serpent’s hisses rises as her feathers spread. The pink, green and purple make her appearance large and more frightening. In the glint of her dark, slit like eyes, McCree sees amusement.

She snaps her head forward. McCree hand darts to his gun but the feathered beast is a strike of lightning. A soft cry comes from the inside of the Amari house. Cold jaws clamp down on his body, sealing his arms at his side. Jerking away, the serpent lifts her head and carries McCree down the street. He no longer fights, only waits as the morning sun begins rising.

In the mouth of the serpent, McCree gets carried away.

* * *

The serpent hold speed and size, but darkness seems to swallow them before they enter the temple. He hardly gets a chance to take in the architecture of the steps leading up to the temple. Dark red stains gives way to a terrible smell at the base of the building as the serpent seems to lunge into the shadows. It’s the absence of stars along the night sky, but crushing down upon him. Fear seizes his neck for one moment before light once again blooms. Disorientated, and suddenly dumped upon a stone floor, McCree takes a moment to breathe.

At least her fangs didn’t puncture his body.

Black scales slip against the ancient ground. Flames flicker as McCree rolls to his arms and knees, keeping one hand upon his hat.

“Thank your fortune for my boredom and curiosity, hunter,” the slippery voice breathes. Looking up with a tight jaw, the serpent’s feathers lie against her body. Much more snake like now, but still unearthly.

He should have specific his words when he said he wanted to meet the feathered serpent. This is has good as it will get, he supposes.

“You fancy me, huh?” he murmurs, holding back a grin.

She makes a sharp hiss, almost like a snort of laughter, before moving her body around the small space. There is no door, but the room opens deeper within the temple. The pale stone seems as ancient as the serpent, and he wonders how long the beast has spent her life here.

Her scales move like a black river, almost touching to where he slowly gets to his feet. Watching the flames in the shine of her body, he follows the tip of her tail through the temple. She moves through the space familiarly, and he finds a throne with bones and jewelry littering around at its base.

She snakes around the golden chair, flickering her feathers outwards for a moment of thought. A black tongue peeks through her jaw, now seemingly harmless without the display of fangs.

“What is your usual prey, hunter?” she asks, letting her serpentine body coil slowly.

“My name isn’t hunter,” he walks just a little closer, hearing the ominous echo of his boots throughout the temple. “Jesse McCree, feathered serpent.”

Another hiss grows, softer this time, as if intrigued.

“You will call me Sombra.”

He nods, but keeps his hand resting on his belt. The weight of the gun on his side is familiar, but useless unless he knows what can kill such a thing. Usually anything sharp and silver can finish off any monster, but this serpent—Sombra— is beyond anything he’s ever encountered.

“What do you hunt, McCree?” the serpent asks again, watching with dark irises. Her large head lifts. The feathers framing her skull nearly brush against the throne.

“Vampires, werewolves, and whatever else terrorizes good people,” he answers as he looks from the gold and silver to the serpent’s black scales. “Most monsters take to hurting people.”

Another hiss rolls off the temple walls. Torches keep the place lit, but there are corners of shadows that Sombra doesn’t seem to mind.

“I don’t bleed, hunter,” her voice rolls the statement easily, “Those little creatures you’ve faced are mortals. I am above this plane of existence. My village is all that is left of what civilization knew me and my kin.”

The serpent raises her head, ruffling her feathers out in a display of power.

“Who brought you here?”

He doesn’t blink when he answers, “No one.”

The serpent doesn’t release her dark gaze.

“Lying doesn’t look good on you, McCree.”

He doesn’t move, only tightens his fingers on his belt.

“But you are the kind of mortal to not break easily. Hmmm,” her voice trails off into a thoughtful hiss.

“Most of my people are grateful to me. When I find the one responsible for your presence here,” her slit eyes fixate upon him, “they will make a nice meal.”

A divot appears in his brow as he drops his gaze for a moment. The temple is large enough that their voices almost echo as well.

“You don’t plan on killing me?”

The serpent’s feathers lower back against her scales.

“The decision has yet to be made. You’re still entertaining me.”

The sense of a sinister smile coming from the serpent would be humorous were it not directed at him.

“Great,” he mutters, watching as the serpent lowers her great head.The blackness in her eyes glint with amusement and strength. Around the throne of bones and jewelry, she coils her scales until they hide her in a circle of her body. Protected as she quickly falls into a slumber.

In almost moments, he feels the pressure of being alone with the beast, and the comforting silence at her sleep. She won’t kill him yet, but McCree isn’t sure how long she’ll find him entertaining.

His gun still sits in his holster. Either the serpent knows what it is, and feels no threat from it, or has no idea of its use. He couldn’t dare try to shoot her now, not without a view of her head or even one eye. If anything, it might make her finalize her decision of killing him.

Nothing is going to get done tonight. To devour him would be less than exciting if she snatched him up in his sleep.

Settling against one stone wall, McCree crosses his boots and pushes his hat over his face. He’s been in bad situations before with monsters, but this will be a story to tell.

If he gets out of it alive.

* * *

His hat slips up when he feels eyes upon his skin. Blinking away sleep, he finds the cause of the shiver down his spine. Resting idle upon an armor set of polished metal, Sombra looks to him with narrow slits. Her serpentine body still curls around her loosely, but her feathers lay low. Her dark irises suddenly brighten with amusement at thes gruff fix of his hat and jump to his feet.

“Looks like you have some intelligence after all,” her voice hisses as he rubs his beard.

To escape would be futile, especially at the speed she can move on her scales. Add the mysterious ability of bending darkness itself, and McCree doesn’t have a chance. The little test he didn’t know he was participating in last night has him even more on edge.

She’s smart as the devil and twice as quick.

“What’s your plan? To keep me here until you’re bored?” McCree asks, longing for the cigarette in his pocket. He’ll get some answers, and let the smoke calm his nervous fingers later.

Her hiss grows, blooming until she begins moving across the temple room. The stones echo her scales, but only because she allows them to.

“It’s rare to find such engaging company,” she says, coiling her scales behind her as she nears McCree. “And such a pretty thing, too.”

He barks out a low laugh, tilting his hat on top of his hair. The low ponytail he maintains has charmed other women before, but this isn’t the usual female gaze he likes running over him.

“No, I won’t kill you,” her words trail off into thought. The feathers around her skull jut outwards, framing her large head. Shadows from the corners of the room begin slinking inwards. The darkness grows around his feet, pooling like spilled liquid.

“Sombra,” he warns, but his voice is high in uncertainty. Without thought, his fingers grasp the grip of his gun.

A sinister smile somehow touches her fang filled jaw, amused as the darkness swallows him in its despair. He tumbles, but never moves through the dark space between the stars before brightness suddenly erupts in his vision. Still standing, McCree takes in the view of the trees and the buzzing of insects while stunned. Carefully, he unhooks his frozen muscles and starts forward.

That’s one way to show a guest outside.

In all of the feathered serpent’s grace, he’s only a small walk away from the village. The chattering people fill his eardrums with relief before he breaks into the clearing of homes. People gasp, speaking in their native tongue. He walks the village, hoping to find an Amari or their house when Ana breaks through the crowd.

“We thought you were dead, boy,” she says sternly, but ends up taking his good hand between hers.

“Nah, the snake fancied me too much to kill me,” he grins, speaking the truth but earning the elderly woman’s glare at the jest.

Pharah is just as shocked at him walking along the ground alive. People flood them, but the Amari’s manage to get him under their roof where he’s fixed a drink. Their impatience floods him after he takes only a sip.

He tells the story, thankful that he does get to tell it. Pharah’s expression is off, frowning and unsatisfied. Her mother’s is a different twist. There is a cold acceptance lowering her gaze away from his face.

“I have to ask,” McCree says, “Has the feathered serpent actually hurt any of the villagers?”

“Yes,” Pharah interjects sharply.

“Only because they were treading around her temple, or attempting to cut off the fattest part of the sacrificed cattle,” Ana says. Her eye lands upon her daughter, hard as stone. “I wondered if this whole thing was off. I know better than to go against my gut.”

“Mom, it needs to die,” Pharah says. Her jaw tenses with her every word.

“Why the sacrifices and jewelry?” McCree speaks aloud, breaking a little of the tension between the two women. “Cattle is for food, but the gold and silver?”

“Offerings for blessings,” Ana says. “The villagers give them, and in turn, their god grants protection and health.”

Every word settles into a shifty spot between McCree’s ribs. The sensation has been growing since his last contact with Sombra, but now it takes deep root. Leaning back in the creaky chair, McCree lowers his hat brim for a private moment.

“That doesn’t take away that it’s a demon and needs to die. I would kill it if I could,” Pharah’s fists curl tightly as her chin jerks upwards. “Who’s to say that the snake would turn on the people the moment they stop giving it all that it demands? The feathered serpent is a monster. Monsters will be destroyed.”

The outlined monster he came here to kill is not what he’s found. Pharah painted a brute of a beast killing left and right for blood sport. Yes, the feathered serpent is among the most dangerous creatures he’s ever dealt with, but never one with gray scales to her form.

Vampires hunt for food. They are robotic, eating machines. Werewolves are uncontrollable, destructive forces. Even ghosts or spirits haunt to hurt or kill.

He’s never stumbled upon a creature with intellect and personality. Cruel and playful, she is, but not outright savage. There is control in her chaos. There are specific numbers in her killings and treasure.

A hand rubs at his beard while he fixes his gaze upon the Amaris. One is certain of the monster lurking the dark, the other second guesses their decision in even having his presence here.

“When do the villagers give sacrifices?” McCree asks, leaning over the table.

“Tonight. There will be one,” Ana says, watching him with one sharp eye. “What do you plan to do, hunter?”

Pharah’s hard gaze turns upon him, hopeful and full of judgement all at once. Letting his drink drop back to the table, McCree tips his hat back.

“Observe.”

* * *

The last dead bird is thrown onto the offering circle. McCree watches the villager rush away just as darkness falls. The end of his cigarette glows in the shadow of a tree, but he doesn’t move from his lazy lean. Instead, he takes a drag and watches all the homes lock up tightly.

There is a certain reverence towards the feathered serpent. Both fear and hope was etched into the dark skin of the people dropping gold and silver into the offering circle.

At the south end of the village lies a stone floor. Ingrained into the center, which is caved inwards like a bowl, are symbols and art flourishing all for the feathered serpent. Most of the depictions are focused on the goddess they give material goods and food to, but there are some creatures he does not recognize. All monsters, similar to Sombra but not quite the same. There are also gems and jewelry varying in purple. Flowers in the same hue frame this stone offering circle as well.

The shadows under the trees on the opposite end of where he stands shift. In a rising hiss, the feathered serpent appears with flocking plumages and daunting jaws open wide. The dark, slit eyes immediately fall upon him, but McCree keeps his distance under the tree. His cigarette is all that he chews on as a feeling of amusement once again fills her unearthly eyes.

The large, serpentine body she possess moves like a ripple of darkness itself. Large, oily scales waver towards the offering circle. Her gaze bears upon it, before her tongue flicks out to taste the air.

McCree looks to the ground as she opens her jaw and strikes downwards. There’s nearly an entire farm’s worth of dead birds laid out for the serpent.

Acts like these are easy reminders of why Pharah wants this monster dead.

Her feast is large, but he doesn’t look up as he lights another cigarette. Images of her non-chewed swallowing makes him take in the detail of his cigar. The same brand he’s chewed on for years now.

“McCree,” her voice calls, amused. When he tilts his hat up, her mouth holds the essence of a satisfied smile. A few small feathers stick of her jaw, but her tongue cleans them away as he approaches.

“Sombra—”

“Shush,” her voice snaps like the strike of her fangs. The intensity of her one word has his fingers waiting on his gun.

“Don’t speak that here, hunter,” she warns. The reflection of lethal, dark eyes punctures her words.

“Didn’t know it was a secret,” he says, composed now that her meaning is clear. “Didn’t take you for liking birds, either.”

Her scales narrow before she tilts her large head in thought.

“Humans were a delicacy. Far before your time, the people know how to really appease us.”

McCree stills. The night air tries to slip underneath his coat but it holds off the slight breeze. Stars sparkle against her looming head, matching her dark scales and shiny pieces. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth.

“Us?” he asks.

Her eyes turn upon him. A soft hiss arises, but it only comes from a soft inhale. Her nostrils flare as she dips her head closer to his person for a moment.

Smokes comes off the burning cigar. He lowers his cigarette just as she raises her large head away from the white stain. His lips part to apologize for the uncomfortable smell of smoke, but her gaze turns to the houses. One, dark eye lands on the roof he’s been sleeping under.

She wasn’t smelling the cigarette.

She was smelling the other human scents on his clothes.

“No!” Throwing one hand out, McCree desperately attempts to stand between her and the Amari house. As if he alone can stop the force of her coiled body.

“What an ungrateful mortal,” Sombra says, darting forward.

He lead her exactly where she wanted him to. The only reason she let him out of the temple alive, to find the one responsible for his presence. 

Smart as the devil and twice as quick. 

Anger causes his teeth to grind together as he begins racing. 

McCree runs. His boots clink against the dirt and stones as he rushes alongside the whipping motion of Sombra’s serpentine body. Hollering lift from his lips but she neither slows nor turns. The quiet of the village is gone. There is only the fear for Pharah and Ana and the lethal hissing touching throughout all his sense.

The Amari door opens before Sombra reaches it. Pharah steps out, armed with a rifle and a hard stare. Pink, purple and green feathers flare out, embracing the challenge.

There is no fight, not for Pharah. There is only a joyful, human meal in store for the feathered serpent.

She stops just inches away from Pharah’s strong stance. She doesn’t flinch at the feathered serpent’s large presence, nor does her brow give away the trembling in her arms as she holds the gun to her heavy skull.

The hissing grows, rising with his heartbeat as he draws his own gun. Curses fall out of his mouth left and right but the feathered serpent loves mortals that entertain. She flicks her tongue out, teasing, and bobbing forward just to see her flinch. A tight finger holds steady on the trigger, but Pharah does not pull it yet.

Sombra rears her head, a viper ready to strike with the gleam of midnight in her black eyes. McCree aims his gun just as Pharah does.

An ear shattering shot echoes in the village.

Between Pharah and Sombra, McCree stands. His left arm, forge of fire, witchcraft and metal, dangles by a few solid pieces at the wrist. Smoke leaks from the end of Pharah’s rifle. She whispers his name with wide eyes.

The feathered serpent’s fangs are inches from McCree, but Sombra’s jaw closes with a slow snap.

“Move.” Her black, slit eyes glint with menace. Her entire body is still coiled. The strike of fangs were for Pharah, and the bullet for Sombra’s right eye. He almost took on both.

“No,” McCree says. Her name lies on the tip of his tongue.

“McCree,” Pharah whispers again, stunned.

For a silent beat, there is only his own rushing blood in his eardrums, and Sombra’s feathers making her dangerous and mesmerizing.

She pulls her head back, jaw widening with dripping fangs. There is no time to exhale as she snaps forward. Pressure squeezes around his ribs but pain of sharp daggers flying through him doesn’t register.

The feathered serpent pulls away, locking the monster hunter in her vise grip alongside her fangs. In moments, the blackness between stars swallows them both.

Familiar stone greets him as he’s dump on the floor. His heartbeat still pounds like the hooves of a thousand horses racing through his chest. A gasp moves through his mouth, before he dares look up to the black scaled monster that should have killed him.

Sombra really should have killed him. 

Black eyes still fall upon him. Her body coils, looming her fangs and flared feathers out in dangerous proximity. Still, she only looms. Silence besides his heavy breaths echo.

Slowly, McCree gets too his feet. He takes his hat in his remaining hand, brushing off the dust with a causal slap to his pant leg. The left arm still dangles by a few precious pieces, ruined. Turning, he faces the goddess’s anger.

They both stare. Her rage seethes into the air like one of her frightening hisses, but he calmly faces what storm she brings. Death will be quick in her anger. There are still too many questions left on his tongue. Why bring him here instead of just snapping his body in half in view of all the villagers. A aure reminder to the Amari’s, and the rest of the people.

Why doesn’t she kill him?

“Well—”

There is no chance to finish his breath when her body lunges into action. In seconds, her scales coil tightly around his person. Pinning his arms, and losing his hat to the temple ground, McCree grunts at the sudden pressure. The large, feathered head of the serpent looms close enough that he could reach out and touch her if one arm was free.

Tense silence once again blooms. Her black eyes give nothing but wraith and blood. Still he breathes.

“I thought you fancied me,” he says.

He braces for his head to be bitten off, but her jaw only parts open slightly.

“Do you not understand that you are mortal? Do you also understand that I am a great being above this existence and often eat humans?”

McCree tilts his head back slightly. The touch of her scales are cool and smooth. He wonders what would happen were he to run his fingers up her body instead of down. Will the scales be sharp and unforgiving then?

“I know what we both are,” he says lowly.

A sharp hiss touches his cheek. The tip of her mouth presses against his hair in a moment of her looming.

“You have no understanding of anything.”

Suddenly, it’s too easy to breathe as she releases him. Barely catching himself on his feet, McCree stumbles a moment before reaching for his hat. Her scales slowly unwind from around him and slip away. On reflex he reaches with both hands, but minds his ruined, prosthetic arm.

The fingers on his left arm move just as his right does for the hat. Snapping his gaze to the sight, the metal and fire moving through his left arm is completely whole. No mark or gun powder stain his arm, as if it were never shot.

Taking his hat, he fixes it back on his head before twisting his newly fixed wrist. Before Sombra encased him in her scales, the arm was beyond useless.

The monster now slithers to the gold throne. Moving behind it, her large, feathered head doesn’t appear, but the rest of her serpentine body continues to slither. The last feather on her tail disappears from view.

Seconds later, a woman steps out from behind the throne. Olive skin and dark eyes look to him with the cooling embers of anger. McCree’s hat is slowly pressed to his chest as she approaches him upon two, bare feet.

Feathers of pink, purple and green accompany the crown of gold upon her hair. They rise as tall as her head, framing her in the same power as the serpent mere moments before. A chest plate of gold falls against her chest, but only that keeps her unexposed. A white cloth wraps around her hips, flowing with fine fabric before more feathers fall down her arms and legs. Clasped like bracelets but colored with the snake’s plumages.

Her bare stomach catch his eyes before he averts his gaze. His hat acts as a shield now as her bare footsteps come to a sharp pause.

“Is this body not pretty enough for you?” the woman speaks. It’s Sombra’s voice, but mortal, and still smoked with controlled rage.

“Where I come from,” McCree says carefully, still hiding his eyes from the sight of her. “We don’t get to see women… exposed until we’ve married them.”

A beat of suffocating silence echoes until laughter erupts. Her laughter is short and filling until his confusion divots his brow heavily.

“Your cultural is strange,” her voice comes with the briefest distraction, “but it fits you. Look at me, McCree.”

“Not until you’re decent,” he says.

Shifting behind his hat, and still flexing the fingers on his left arm, another note of humor makes him question the goddess.

“Look at me, McCree,” she repeats, not so wrathful.

Caution slows his hand to lift his hat, but he finds his gaze no longer afflicted. The woman stands with the same colored feathers now falling down her torso in a sort of poncho. The gold chest plate runs over both now, and her crown holds up high. She approaches him with shining, dark eyes.

McCree places his hat against his chest. In the faint torch light, she appears like a being from a myth. Though, he supposes that’s exactly what she is. When she reaches him, he finds his height above hers with an intrigued note.

The feathered serpent goddess is short.

Her dark irises shine as she looks over him. The same, slit pupils hold McCree in the manner of the feathered serpent, but the woman is… alluring. A beauty mark touches by her left eye. Her hair falls back in thick, curling waves which brush against once shoulder. The texture shines gently in the torchlight. In the back of his mind, he wonders how soft it would be to touch.

“Sombra,” he says. The goddess looks to him, confirming with a moment of amusement lighting her eyes.

“There was a time before white men came with their diseases and their religion,” she says. “I would have eaten someone like you without hesitation.”

McCree raises his left hand, knowing they both see the repaired arm working without a hitch.

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

Why did she fix his arm?

Why show him her human form now?

Her crown of feathers tilt in the slightest. The same motion the feathered serpent uses when pondering.

“Secrets, McCree,” she says. There’s the darkness marbling her eyes with the word alone. “That is all I find worthwhile after the other gods went to sleep. The sacrifices, the treasure, my own worship. They hold no meaning with so little fearing my existence now.”

Her fingers hold colored nails of purple. Curling them elegantly, she brushes her hair from her face. No remorse, no hope touches her face when she speaks.

“I am a dying breed.”

Turning on her feet, she motions with a tilt of her head for him to join her. He does, and walks at her side as she leads him back to the golden throne.

“You’re not dying,” he says, certain.

A mischievous grin touches her lips.

“Not physically.”

She stops him at the foot of the throne. Throwing aside a bone that looks suspiciously like a rib and a few silver goblets, she takes out a dark, glass vase. Tearing off the stuffed top, she sips the purple liquid from inside. When she finishes, her eyes don’t look to him when she holds it out.

He takes it, eyeing the contents before sampling the alcohol. It’s age so finely, he wonders if this drink is as old as she.

“Have you ever tried whiskey?” he asks while giving the vase back. It takes him a moment to free his flask before taking a sip from it as well. The bite makes his insides shiver before one sharp brow falls upon him.

They switch drinks as she ascends the steps. Settling down into her throne, she crosses her legs before touching the arm rest once. McCree steps to her throne. The vase stays in his grasp as she sniffs the flask. Her first sip is controlled well enough, but she dumps it back entirely for a second swallow.

“Not bad,” she says. Her eyes lift to watch him drink from the vase.

He swirls the liquid for a moment, peering inside the strange vase. The purple alcohol moves like the motion of her scales at night.

“What secrets do you keep,” he asks. Her gaze tilts up to him, before they trade drinks. He likes the bite of his whiskey because of the familiarity, but her drink stains her lips a deep purple. She wipes a drop of alcohol away from the corner of her mouth with a sharp finger.

“The kind that can kill someone while keeping them alive.” Her gaze wanders around her throne room.

“You’re the only mortal to ever walk out of my temple, McCree,” she speaks, before tipping her head back for a drink. The gold outline of her throne makes her dark hair shine even more.

“Your arm, your weapons, your hair. All secrets that I want,” she looks to him with a heavy air of study.

McCree leans against the armrest, wondering if the buzz in his brain is already hitting him because of the goddess’s drink.

A soft laughter bubbles up. At least he isn’t the only one feeling the room tilt already.

“My shadows and feathers and power… I’ve grown so soft after all these centuries. The other gods are gone… Maybe it’s time I join the rest of the old gods in slumber,” she says lowly.

McCree tits his hat up with a finger, looking to the goddess in the throne. Her lips are still purple, and her eyes still shine with darkness. However, warmth blooms at the thought of touching her skin.

“You don’t have to sleep, if you don’t want to,” McCree speaks with a soft desperation. “You can come with me.”

Her gaze settles heavily on him. Sharp, even while intoxicated.

 “Monster hunting isn’t the easiest thing, but you learn a lot about folks along the way.” He can tell his rambles well enough now, but his mouth refuses to stay shut while looking over her gold and feathers.

A sinister smile touches her lips.

“You fancy me,” she shushes, like another secret that keeps her entertained. In human form, there’s no denying her beauty. The essence of the goddess still circles her feathers and gold jewels. The scales hide underneath her skin. Even her voice slips against his teeth.

“I already know you fancy me,” he says, taking a drink of whisky.

A certain stillness settles over her limbs. Her feathers of pink, purple and green lie still as her eyes wander over his person. Down his chest, and back to his face, she searches for something.

The goddess leans towards him. Her fingers reach out, brushing against his jawline with a touch of light bird bones. Warm skin raises goosebumps upon his neck, and he holds his lungs still as to not breathe out a shudder.

She finds his hair tied in a ponytail. Her fingers brush his brown locks once, shifting it to lay over his shoulder. Once free, her hands return back to his beard. Breaths match in their slow tempo and quietness. She outlines his jaw, before hooking her hand around the back of his neck.

He finds himself pulled into her aura of foxglove and feathers. The purple stain of her lips teases him once before he lays a hand against her hip.

A chaste moment presses them both together, before he gives in to her touch. Both whiskey and the purple drink mix on their tongues. It’s the darkness under the moon. The starlight upon the grass of a mountainside. She’s both silver and mysterious. Warm. The gentle trace of her tongue against his bottom lip sends shivers down his spines. The one creature he’s too stunned by to simply leave be.

“Jesse,” she whispers when they part.

The drink on their tongues becomes terrible. He pulls away, but stays close enough to feel her quiet breaths against his cheek.

“What? You don’t like kissing a goddess?” she asks, but her dark eyes don’t smooth until he presses his lips quickly to hers. Just a simple kiss, before he pulls back again.

“We’re drunk,” he says.

“Do you think that’s the only reason I’m kissing you?”

No. No.

They are their own secret.

He wraps his arm around her waist. Feathers and softness fall against him. Lifting her slightly from the throne, he leans over her golden chair and tastes her teeth. Sharp and biting and all too melting. Her kisses are poisonous.

“Are you only kissing me back because you’re afraid, McCree?” she murmurs against the shell of his ear.

Her fingers run through his hair again. Slowly, he touches a curled lock from underneath her crown. With a cautious but hopeful breath, he presses his lips to her cheekbone.

“No.”

Her fingers keep soothingly touching through his ponytail.

“Lying doesn’t look good on you,” she breathes, “You look like my best secret.”

He says her name, tasting it like the alcohol on his tongue. Pulling closer, through the feathers and gold, her warmth intoxicates him. The best drink he can hope to keep upon his lips.

* * *

They share the golden chair with overlapping legs and lingering fingertips. Eventually, McCree’s head starts drooping from the alcohol. Her hand catches his hat before it hits the floor, and she presses his cheek into her shoulder.

He wakes up, still against her. Dainty fingers run along his prosthetic arm. Another secret she’ll want to know. Dark, shining eyes look across the room as he still smells the whiskey and her own perfume.

“McCree,” she says, slowly waiting until he lifts his head. “We’re not drunk anymore.”

He laughs roughly, reaching up to touch a lock of her hair. It’s as soft as silk upon a pillowcase. It curls between his fingers as his voice rumbles.

“I’m a man of my word, Sombra,” he speaks, before pressing his lips to her cheekbone. He stays there for a moment, feeling her eyes close and the warm of her skin. A daydream to rest against. Her breath softens before he lifts away.

“McCree,” her dark eyes shine. “I know a way to let the goddess sleep.”

McCree brow narrows at her mischievous certainty, but her fingers interlock between his metal and fire digits.

“Listen to me.”

He does. Her words are quick but crafted. The surety of the village’s safety and her status as a goddess is secure.

There is no indication of nightfall or sunrise in the temple. The torches keep throwing off flames of light at all times, but Sombra’s sense of the day is eerie. When the sun fades behind the horizon of tree tops, McCree’s boot are pressing into the dirt that leads back into the village.

Pharah is waiting, and jumps to her feet at the sight of him.

“McCree,” she stops before him, taking him in without a scratch or bruise. “I thought I killed you.”

He puts his hand on her shoulder.

“All’s well, Pharah,” he reassures, looking to their home. “I need you to get your mother.”

“The serpent, McCree…” A fire of protection at the demon’s wraith still burns in her brown eyes. “Do you know how to kill it?”

“Pharah,” he speaks lowly, looking across the village to where the offering circle still lies. “You and the rest of your village don’t have to worry about the feathered serpent anymore.”

For how shocked she is, Pharah is quick, but Ana is quick and bustling with curiosity and anger. She chastises them both for being fools, going against a snake goddess before she lets McCree answer the unspoken question.

“I killed the serpent.”

Pharah’s face lifts, joyful in its relief. Her questions are quick of the how, but McCree only pats his holstered gun. The Amari daughter parts her lip in excitement, thanking him again and again.

“I’ll tell the rest of the villagers,” she says, but McCree’s hand stops her.

“Wait, you need to tell them a few other things as well.”

Ana’s expression is still, unreadable. He doesn’t face her quite yet.

“No one can enter that temple.” McCree holds her gaze firmly. “The creature is dead, but the essence of its death is still strong. Anyone who enters that temple will be cursed, so let the snake rot in peace, alright?”

Pharah doesn’t hesitate when she agrees.

“Thank you, monster hunter.” Pharah turns, and races into the village, calling in their native tongue.

McCree fixes his hat, and faces the elderly woman.

“Ana,” he says.

“You shouldn’t have killed that serpent.” She says sharply, but holds a reverence. “Pharah worried about the people here, but that creature never harmed anyone who wasn’t asking for it…”

His lungs expand slowly in regret. Ana’s stare is heavy and accusing, but ultimately understanding.

“I think that monster really was a god.” Ana looks up to the sky, prompting McCree to follow her gaze.

“I’ll be taking my leave now, ma’am,” he says. “Tell Pharah that she’s got a strong head on her shoulders.”

A wrinkled smile meets him briefly.

“You’re welcome to stay until morning, McCree,” Ana says.

He grins lightly in the darkness. “Thank you, Ana, but I don’t stick around too long after business is done.”

“Hmph.” Ana turns to him with one, knowing eye. “Take care, hunter.”

Taking the brim of his hat, McCree tips it silently. His gaze sweeps over the village one last time before he turns back to the trees. In the jungle, insects buzz and the stars peek between green leaves, but he doesn’t stop when a woman joins him at his side.

In the quiet night, her hand comes to rest on the inside of his elbow, but she stays still. McCree finds Sombra’s gaze looking over her shoulder, back towards the village. Following her line of sight back to Ana, McCree flickers between the two. Her brow is furrowed. Perhaps Ana recognizes the dark irises shining in the night, or the feathers adoring her person, but she only wonders.

Sombra lifts her chin, before turning away.

“Let’s go, Sombra,” he murmurs.

A satisfied hiss leaves the corner of her lips.

“What monster do we plan on hunting? You don’t fall in love with all of them, do you?” she asks, giving off a sinister smile.

“Not usually, but a snake seems to have charmed me,” McCree grins, earning a sharp, arching brow from Sombra.

“We’ll have to see what comes our way,” he continues, already imagining the vampires and werewolves lurking on their travels. Her hand tightens on his arm as they follow the path away from the village. The monster hunter holds closely to the warmth of the hidden goddess upon his arm.

A soft hiss leaves Sombra’s lips as the stars dance within the darkness of her eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Please R&R, dolls! It helps me out a lot ♥


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